Smoke Break
by T'Aimee
Summary: A drabble I wrote while I was a bit drunk, turned out better than I had expected. Maybe Hemingway was right. John takes up smoking because it reminds him if Sherlock.


John had taken up smoking after Sherlock left. One night, almost like any other, 2 years 7 days and 5 hours since Sherlock fell, not that he has been counting, he finds himself standing outside a cafe lighting up. Trying to feed the thing inside him that only lived because of the sick rush in his veins. Not only the one sparked by nicotine but by the memories that wrap around him of HIM. He takes a swift pull and closes his eyes, imagining an intruding force, one very unique to him. He can almost hear the rustle of his thick peacoat's fabric and feel the sharp snap of his gaze upon John. He licks his lips then takes another pull, scrunching his brows in longing, trying to hold onto these bittersweet memories.

He can almost hear the very, specifically amused tone he always put on, but only around him, "really John, you were the one who kept insisting it was a bad habit. "And with that John's eyes blinked open. And there he stands, both blending and imposing the night with one sweep of his pale blue eyes. He dips his head to touch the end of his own fag to John's and pull the smoke in before releasing it to join with the stars. 'Its not real it's not real, it never is.' He lets out a cold laugh as he bites his tongue and pinches his eyes shut. Opening them again, this time ready, he just smiles, because he has to savour these moments.

"You think I've gone mad. You are trying to convince me that you really are dead and that I need to move on." He smiles tightly and shakes his head. "And as I've said I'm not letting go of you Sherlock. No matter how many years pass, you will stay the master of my heart and mind," recites his speech, the one he repeats to himself whenever the vision of Sherlock clouds his mind.

"Is this what I've done to you John?" Sherlock's voice ghosts over him and pulls goosebumps from his flesh, even under his coat, as he flicks the ashes from the end of his 'death stick' as John used to call them. He opens his eyes expecting Sherlock to be gone or sporting a nonplussed expression, the one he has become accustomed to. But Sherlock's gaze is downcast and his burning cigarette hanging loosely between fingers.

"I am sorry John. So very sorry. But I couldn't... I wouldn't let you... It was my choice and I will not... I will NOT let myself regret it. Your life is worth a thousand years away from you."

John sucks in a breath, 'a new torture my mind has created. Now he is not only alive but also apologizing, sorry for the pain he has cost me. Shite.' He looks up a Sher- HIM. "You are dead," he almost sobs letting the stub of his cigarette disappear into London's dirty streets. "No matter how much I hope and wish, and, God above, pray that you cheated death as well. You are dead, Sherlock. And you won't return. No matter how I love you," he gasped out and swung a clumsy hit at the illusion.

Only illusions don't have substance. And they most defiantly don't pull you in and crush your face into theirs in an awkward attempt of a kiss. 'I've completely lost it now. I'm done. To the looney bin I go.' And John doesn't know what else to do but sink in and return the kiss of his long lost flatmate, no matter the fictional sense at the moment. 'I'm happy to go crazy if I get this,' he thinks as his fingers twist into Sherlock's curls.

When they finally do pull apart, John is breathless and he won't let go of Sherlock's sleeves. "You will NOT leave again. You got that?" John gasps, " I really couldn't care less if I am full on mad, you will not leave me." He sinks his head into Sherlock's slightly worn blue scarf that is so full of his scent John whimpers into it threading it between his fingers. Then he looked up to let his thirsty eyes finally drink all of him in, his lashes that kissed his cheeks with each blink, his cheekbones that were just if not sharper than before, his pale skin disappearing into to sweep of his scarf.

"I'm not going anywhere again, not without you." He soothes, Sherlock bloody Holmes is soothing him. And all he can do is look into those blue pools of light and finally he reached up, caressing his cheek with his callused fingers, which Sherlock closed his eyes to as he leaned into the touch. John's breath caught and he moved to cover Sherlock's reddening lips with his own.

And then his thoughts all left him, drifted into feeling and heat and touch. It began with a longing crush and became a heated race to learn and know as much as fast as they could. There was tugging and biting and a few escaped moans as they gave and took what they both had needed for so long. When they did pull apart it was for breath which they both drew in unsteadily, eyes roaming each other flushed faces and mussed hair. They then both smiled and began to laugh feeling the comfortable ease return and Sherlock threaded their fingers together, brushing his other hands along Johns face. And finally John let himself feel happy again.

~ Fin~


End file.
